


Universal Constants

by keraunoscopia



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode Tag Season 19 Episode 19, Gen or Pre-Slash, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Peter Needs a Hug, Pre-Relationship, Sonny needs a hug, Sunk Cost Fallacy, what happens next
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 22:36:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14365146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keraunoscopia/pseuds/keraunoscopia
Summary: He doesn't want to go home.Home means silence, it means contemplation. It means a sleepless, restless night confronted by the realities of the situation he's in now. Guilt about his choices. But he doesn't know where to go.





	Universal Constants

**Author's Note:**

> These boys just really need each other.

Peter has never liked driving. From the first beat up Prism he bought off a buddy at seventeen, to the luxury sports cars expected of him in the major leagues, to the modest crossover he has elected to drive now, black, leather interior. It's too much power, too much of a liability. Driving requires undivided attention because accidents happen in split seconds, people are killed, families torn apart because someone, carelessly, or negligently, or recklessly, or just absentmindedly looked away for a moment. 

Peter and Pamela learned that lesson early on. 

But he has to drive now, more than he ever has before, because Peter has always elected to live in cities. Metropolitan centers where taxis and busses and subways, now ubers and lyfts are always readily available. It's a secondary responsibility that he's taken on. The drive upstate to Bayside, every week. Once a week. At least in theory, but it's ended up more often, more often than not. 

His fingers curl around brown leather, still cool to the touch because his hands are still cold and clammy, and he hasn't been able to get them to stop shaking since he left the facility, left her. It's nearly midnight, and his hands clench as he tries to keep his focus on the eerie illumination of white and yellow paint strips flitting by in rapid succession. 

It's pitch black, and he's hyper aware of the edge of his field of vision, where his high beams can't quite reach, and he's in deer country, knows that even if he keeps his heavy eyes zeroed in with his fullest concentration, it's not a guarantee.

But it keeps him from dwelling, mostly, until he's in the boundaries of the city, and that pitch black fades to the neon and gray haze that he's more familiar with, where the stars fade to a milky, perpetual dusk. 

He doesn't want to go home. 

Home means silence, it means contemplation. It means a sleepless, restless night confronted by the realities of the situation he's in now. Guilt about his choices. But he doesn't know where to go. 

Peter lets his gaze drop to the gas gauge for just a moment at a red light, only an eighth left and he sighs. Because he hates driving, but getting lost in the city in a series of unplanned turns still seems better than confronting the truth of his 21st floor apartment. 

Going home means acknowledging that he's alone. Truly.

He catches the fluorescent glow of a twenty four hour sign on a 7/11 and notes the irony before pulling into the parking lot. He pockets his keys, and reaches for his wallet in slow, methodical movements, and he pauses, realizing that he's still wearing his tie. He pulls it loose as he steps out of the car, and tosses it back inside before walking inside the convenience store. 

The overnight cashier doesn't bother to look up from his magazine, and Peter heads straight to the back of the store, and pauses for only a second before prying a cooler door open. His hand rests on a six pack of his go to, fingers curling around the cardboard, but he hesitates, and opts for a twelve pack instead. 

The cashier barely grunts a greeting as Peter drops the box on the counter and offers up a twenty, not bothering to wait for change before he's out the door and back to his car, this time with a plan in mind.

Maybe it's stupid, maybe it's a bad idea, but anything seems better going home right now, so he puts his car in gear and heads down barely familiar roads, thankful that the city traffic thins past one AM. 

Peter parks on the street, and grabs the beer before climbing out of his car and walking up to the apartment building, and he's surprised but glad that there's no doorman or buzzer to let him in. Instead he checks the mailboxes for names, and climbs the three flights to the apartment he's decided to gamble on. 

It feels a little like Russian Roulette, he thinks to himself as he knocks on the door. Loud, but hopefully not loud enough to wake the neighbors. 

He's not sure how long he's supposed to wait. 

He's not even sure he wants the door to open anymore. 

But before he gets a chance to decide to leave, it swings open, and there he is, looking like the sort of war torn collateral Peter expected, because he hasn't known Sonny for long, but it's long enough. 

Sonny runs a hand through loose, ungelled hair, and he's in sweatpants, and a tee. Casual, but he doesn't look like he was sleeping, and Peter can hear the hum of a tv from inside the apartment. "Peter? What time is it? What are you doing here?" He asks with confusion, and his voice is hoarse. Peter can't quite tell if it's from unuse, or from crying. 

Peter lifts the twelve pack sheepishly, "Liv told me about what happened. I thought maybe you could use a friend." 

Sonny's face contorts into a curious sort of expression that Peter doesn't know how to read, and the silence that settles between them is just a hair past his comfort zone. "I'm fine, really," Sonny urges earnestly, and Peter's face falls. 

"I... Sorry, I should have called first or something, it's just," he wavers, "maybe I could use the friend, I guess." 

Sonny doesn't say anything in response, but suddenly Peter's being herded into the apartment and ushered into the couch, and Sonny takes the beer from him and carries it to the kitchen, and returns with two open bottles in hand. 

There's a game on the flat screen hanging over the fireplace, and Sonny drops into the couch next to Peter, handing the bottle to him. They sit in silence for a while, watching basket after basket scored, and Peter thinks that maybe this would be weird with anyone else, but it doesn't feel weird now. 

"So what's going on?" Sonny finally asks, propping his leg up, ankle resting on his knee, beer cradled in his lap. He doesn't look over, keeps his gaze trained on the television. Peter recognizes the tactic, knows it's sometimes harder to say things with people staring. 

Peter opens his mouth to respond, two hands clasped around his beer bottle, but he's not sure what to say, not sure how much to divulge, because he's here because he didn't want to be alone, but also because he thinks Sonny might need someone too. 

Maybe unburdening himself from this will make it easier for Sonny to talk, but Peter doesn't want it to be all about his problems even if Sonny insists he's fine. 

"My sister's not doing well, I had to make a call about her care and I'm not sure it was the right one. But there's no one else left to make the decisions, so it's on me," Peter explains slowly, keeping his own eyes trained on the tv until he hears Sonny shift, drawing his gaze towards him. 

There's something about Sonny that Peter doesn't know how to explain. It's like there's a gravitational force guiding him closer. Just as universal. Just as constant. 

"I didn't know you had a sister," Sonny says simply. It's not an accusation, just an observation and Peter realizes that maybe he should have started at the beginning. 

"She's a few years older than me, but she's schizophrenic, she's in a facility upstate. I just drove back from there tonight," Peter sighs softly, studying Sonny's watchful gaze, like sky blue slivers of glass in a marble. 

Sonny pauses, and his features soften even further, sympathy or empathy evident on his face. "I'm sorry."

Peter just shakes his head, because that's not what he's here for. He doesn't need sympathy or condolences. "It's okay. I just, it feels like there should be more that I can do, she's suffering and I can't help her." 

Sonny doesn't say anything in response, and Peter's suddenly interested in the flaking red and white label on his beer bottle. He digs his nail into the adhesive, pulling back a strip before he hears the soft sniff, a little inhale, and he turns to see Sonny's face screwed shut, iridescent trails illuminated against pale cheeks. 

Peter quickly sets his bottle on the coffee table and turns, angling himself towards him. "Sonny," he speaks softly, and the words feel foreign on his tongue but anything else seems weird to say. "What's wrong?" Sonny drops his head to his hands, sucking in a little gasp for air and Peter reaches out, gingerly, to rest his hand on Sonny's knee. "You can talk to me..."

Sonny's entire frame is trembling, Peter can feel the shivers under his touch, but he gasps out "I couldn't save her. I tried. I couldn't save any of them" before his words are lost to heaving sobs. 

Peter doesn't know what to say, because from the sounds of it, he doesn't know the half of it, and Sonny doesn't seem prepared to answer any questions. Instead, he moves his hand from Sonny's knee to his shoulder, and gently guides Sonny's head to his lap, and he shifts between rubbing soothing circles on Sonny's back, and running his fingers through Sonny's hair, and slowly, the sobs subside. 

And Peter's not sure what it means, not sure what the cause is, of this gravitational force, but somehow, this feels like the center he's been pulled to, and he's not sure he ever wants to leave. 

He does though, when Sonny has calmed down, and sat up and wiped the tears from his cheeks. “I'm sorry about that,” Sonny says softly, the flush on his cheeks darkening. 

“It's okay, Sonny. I'm the one who showed up at your door at one am,” Peter responds with a soft chuckle, but it fades to a serious look. “If you want to talk, I'll listen.”

Sonny sighs, that heavy sort of noise from deep in his chest. “I do, but I'm exhausted.” 

Peter nods, and gives Sonny’s knee one final pat before standing up. “Go to sleep, I won’t keep you. We can talk tomorrow, or whenever you want.” 

Sonny smiles, and despite the red eyes and the tear stained cheeks, it's the most radiant thing Peter has seen in months. “That sounds good.” 

When Peter gets to the sidewalk, he fumbles for the keys in his pocket, but pauses, and opts to walk instead. Each step towards his apartment, away from Sonny’s feels like a feat. And Peter isn’t sure what this is yet, doesn't know what it means, but he's certain that this force will draw him back.


End file.
